Wolfsheim grunted his acknowledgement. “When we started shaving her skull,” he said, “we found a single gunshot wound-entry on the back of her head.”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Cody said. “She was shot?”
Wolfsheim nodded.
“What caliber?”
“I’d say. 22 judging from the size of the entry wound. But it’s impossible to tell. There was no bullet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The damage to her brain made it clear the gunshot wound is what killed her-fired at point blank range, but through some kind of cloth-probably surgical gauze-which is why we found no trace of blood on her hair at first examination. Though we didn’t find the bullet, we found an ounce of water in her brain. The bullet was made of ice.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cody said. “Who else knows about this?”
“No one except Annie,” Wolfsheim said.
“Let’s keep it that way for a few minutes. We’ve got a leak somewhere and I need to plug it before we go back to normal procedure.”
“You think it’s inside TAZ?” Wolfsheim asked, surprise in his voice.
“I sure as hell hope not,” Cody replied. “That’d be enough for me to hand in my badge.” His thoughts went to the Chief’s office, and that didn’t make him happy either.
As if by response, the black phone on Cody’s desk rang. When he glanced at the caller i.d., he nodded for Wolfsheim to stay.
“I found Number Three,” Stinelli said.
“What?”
“On a hunch, I called Philadelphia P.D. this morning early and asked about the details of Steamroller Jackson’s death. The investigating officer just called me back. Jackson was found in an alley, slumped against a wall-naked.”
“Sitting down?” Cody asked.
“Yes,” Stinelli answered.
“Cause of death?” Cody asked, punching Stinelli onto speakerphone so Wolfsheim could hear.
“They wrote it off to a heart attack induced by drugs and alcohol overdose,” the Chief answered. “The poor guy had been homeless for two years, and was a familiar face to the cops on the beat. I asked them to do an autopsy. They still have him in the morgue, waiting for a distant family member to claim him.”
“I want to be there,” Cody said.
“Me too,” said Wolfsheim.
“I’m pulling up outside right now,” Stinelli said. “Bring your coffee… In spill-proof mugs, please.”?
Cody and Wolfsheim both liked their coffee scalding hot, so neither dared a sip until they were onto the Turnpike. When Wolfsheim grumbled about the city’s potholes, that seemed especially treacherous on the West Side, Stinelli cut him short. “What would you rather have, smooth streets or extra cops?” he asked.
Nothing to argue about there.
When the Chief asked about the case, Cody asked him to close the courtesy window.
Stinelli’s eyebrows went up, but he pushed the button.
“Can’t be too careful,” Cody said. “That bastard Hamilton has inside information, and I don’t think he’s getting it from our side.”
“For chrissakes,” Stinelli said, “Berno’s been with me for fifteen years.”
Cody chose not to reply. “Jackson very well could be Androg’s work,” he said instead. “But why Philadelphia-and what’s the connection?”
“The connection,” Stinelli said, “is that the guy used to be a pal of mine.”
“Just like Uncle Tony was Bergman’s pal, and Dr. Wiley was Kate’s?” Wolfsheim said.
Whose pal was Raymond Handley? Cody wondered. “Go ahead, Wolfie, give the Chief your thoughts.”
Wolfsheim summed the case up: “All we know about these crimes is what we don’t know. No DNA, no hairs, no prints, no blood, not even a definitive footprint. No direct connection between the victims, no particular geographical area or social status. We got everything from a rich stockbroker to a restaurant owner to an E.R. doctor, and maybe to a bum in an alley.”
“We know the killer is doing a tour de force of murder methods each time,” Cody said, “using one way but perversely disguising it as one or more other m.o.’s.”
Wolfsheim nodded. “We also know that most serial killers have two characteristics in common: they want us to know the killings are their work; and they subconsciously want to get caught. That’s why they usually leave a totem or trophy.”
“But this isn’t business as usual,” Cody said. “I don’t think this killer is that simple. If he’s like other serial killers, he will develop a ritual to preserve his success-but he hasn’t developed it yet. If Androg wants to get apprehended and brought to justice, it’s gonna be in no way we’ve seen before. There’s some kind of elaborate and unique game going on, and unless we figure out the rules soon it’ll only get worse. If Jackson turns out to be one of them, we’ve got four in four days.”
Stinelli looked at his Blackberry’s calendar as though trying to read its secrets. “It’s gonna be a media meltdown when they get wind of this.”
“Hamilton already got wind.”
“How?” Stinelli asked.
“I don’t know,” Cody answered. “It’s just a hunch. A very strong hunch.” There’s one way he could know that had nothing to do with leaks, he was thinking.
Wolfsheim continued. “He’s not exactly leaving trophies, but this perp clearly wants us to know these killings are his handy work. All the victims were found in a seated position. All three of them were naked-including Jackson.”
“Causes of death?” Stinelli asked.
“Asphyxiation, stabbing/slashing/puncture wounds, and gunshot.”
“Which leaves drugs/alcohol/poison,” Cody added.
“Right,” Wolfsheim interrupted. “And, if you go by the book, blunt trauma and electrical-thermal. And don’t forget: All the murders take place right after midnight.”?
The forensics exam began minutes after the New Yorkers arrived at Philadelphia Police Headquarters on Franklin Square.
Jackson’s body had been moved from the cooler an hour earlier so that it would reach room temperature before the procedure.
Lou was surprised at his own reaction to the sight of his old high school classmate’s rigid face. A wave of sorrow washed over him, followed by anger at a life wasted and snuffed out. Why was it, he thought, that some people get it together and others don’t? Is the shape of your life really under your control, or is it all the luck of the draw? Certainly Steamroller had little control over his death. Some heartless prick had selected him as a pawn in his own sick game.
Wolfsheim saw the detective’s nostrils flare. “Ammonia,” he nodded at Cody. “Probably maggots in there somewhere.”
The Philly coroner was named Sam Liu, an Asian so diminutive he had to stand on a stool to operate. As Sam made the Y-cut and the abdomen fell open, the smell of ammonia intensified. And, sure enough, they discovered unhatched maggot eggs in the abdominal cavity.
“What does that tell us?” Cody asked.
“You know as well as I do,” Wolfsheim said.
“I like to hear you tell it.”
“Dead bodies attract flies within minutes. The females swarm around open wounds and lay hundreds of eggs which hatch twelve-fifteen hours later.”
“So Jackson was found before they hatched,” Stinelli said.
“And before they could destroy the evidence,” Cody added.
“Maggots can consume a full grown pig in days,” Liu said, apropos of nothing.
The three New Yorkers looked at him, but he continued his examination without further commentary.
“I think we can safely conclude,” Wolfsheim said, “that time of death was shortly after midnight Saturday morning.”
One of Liu’s intern-assistants ran the eggs through a blender, and returned to report that she’d found traces of cocaine in the sample.
Liu nodded. “Happy maggots. That’s consistent with our first conclusions.”
“Something else,” the assistant said. “We identified a residue of liquid in the Chivas Regal bottle found near the body. It was loaded with coke. That’s how it was introduced,” she said.